The Painted World
by RustedThunder
Summary: The Painted World. The age of Twilight and Dusk is ending. A Chosen Undead leaves the North Atlas Asylum in pursuit of the First Flame. The Mistress of the Night begs the Flame be snuffed, otherwise the Sun shall raise again on Vala, and destroy everything she has achieved.
1. The Scythe Dancer

The following literature has rated

E / G / PG / **M** / MA-15+ / R-18+ / X-18+ / RC

M by the author using the Australian Classification Board Rating System for Film, TV and Video Games.

The following contains:

Violence

Mild Horror Themes

Mild Gore and Blood References

The Author Has Deemed This Work Suitable For Most Audiences.

* * *

The Painted World.

How long I have waded through the black I cannot say. I stain mine blade with the blood and ichor of those whom hath lost their mind. Slaves to inhibition, they no longer are the master of their own thoughts, and I hold no regret for killing them. I have learned to fear a single thing. Not death, I left that fear long ago, but losing my goal. For that is the only thing that keeps me sane.

How long I've waded through the black I cannot say. From whence I last lit the beacon until this current moment. The length of time I cannot say. Centuries could have passed and I would not notice. Around me stalk the creatures of the black. Rising out of the tar close to me. Though I may walk through their shadowed valley. I am the death that is feared.

I have walked these grounds innumerable in my attempts to kill the corrupted being whom lays at the end. I know I have come close to putting them- _Her_ out of her misery. I continue through the black. In the distance I see the one I need to kill. About me as I stalk through the black are small dustings of red. Not of blood, but wilting petals. I draw closer. She is crouched in front of a headstone. A spattering of snow and petals abound in the clearing. She faces out towards a drop into a sea of the black. She is weeping. A red cloak flutters behind her. Her weapon, a jagged crescent scythe lays beside her. I have felt it pierce into me, rend me in two. I have felt its blade disembowel me. I do not plan for it to do so again. But I have learnt plans rarely work.

I etch closer. The weeping is clearer. I know why she cries. She appears small and meek. But I know her name. She is the _Scythe Dancer_. And I will have her _soul_.

I stop, she is ten metres from me now. I have learnt to journey no closer or I'd sooner be walking through the black again. I draw my Ursine Great Sword. And my Vocuan shield. The weeping dims and I know she is aware of me. I retrieve a Yellow Lightning Crystal and crush it along the length of my blade. A wave of electricity sparks up along the tempered blade. I pull out an unstable Red Fire Crystal and throw it at her. It impacts, igniting her in black and red fire. I don't watch her burn, already I've turned around and braced my shield against the jagged blow of the scythe, she disappears again, leaving only wilted petals. I've turned again and braced, she strikes the shield again.

I am thankful that I was able to find her teacher, her uncle, a man who has seen everyone he loves die or corrupt against the tide of the black. He told me how she fights, he begged me to free her of the black, end her life to save her so she could die innocent. Her mother asked that of me too. Only able to watch on and weep from her prison within a drawn world.

She is a hit and run fighter. That was what I was told, she will tire herself quickly, that is when I shall strike. The lightning will lock her muscles. The poisoned knives I possess will hurt her the more she fights.

She falters, a half step and nothing more, but she has tired. I turn again and thrust, the Ursine Great Sword runs across her side. Lightning arcing into her. She scores a glancing hit on my breastplate. I take my chance. I draw three poisoned knives and throw them. Each sink into her flesh. She falters again, and I throw two more. They hit their mark. She dashes again but I am ready for her. I turn and block her blade while thrusting my own, scoring a wound on her leg. If it takes me crippling her, making sure she cannot dance away, torturing her to put her out of her misery, so be it. She moves again but still I am ready. I turn, giving a wide swing with my sword, she appears again. The blade runs deep across her abdomen but still she gets away. She appears behind me but still I meet her blow with my shield. Her hood flutters a bit, and I can see the dead silver sheen in her eyes.

She moves again, and I turn to meet her. She is not there. Like me she has learnt through this fight and has feigned her usual attack. A clever tactic, in my sole minded focus on my plan she had developed a counter. I feel the jagged edges cut through my spine, through my stomach. I glance down to the crimson blade sticking out of my chest. Plans rarely work. She kicks me off her blade. As soon as I hit the ground I roll over and brace my sword, stopping her scythe inches from impaling my head to the ground. The lightning arcs into her blade and forces her off. I roll backwards to my feet and raise my sword again to stop another strike. She disappears from my view to the other side of the clearing. I see her tensing, I know what she is about to do. It will not work.

She dashes at me, cloak flowing behind, hood lowering itself to show her black and blood red hair and her silver eyes. Oh how the _Dancer_ would have looked in all her glory. Her porcelain beauty tainted and cracked. Red petals appear in her wake. She is closer now. Halfway across the field. If I had not poisoned her, crippled her legs, she would have already killed me. I roll forward, under the arcing blade and thrust my sword up, impaling her. Splashing blood over my blade and my armour. I can see her face contort into shock and she disappears again.

I hear the weeping again. I look towards the grave marker and find her there. A bundle of blood and cloth. The taint of the black is gone. I approach, dragging my sword behind me. I draw near her and see that she is reaching for the gravestone.

'Please...' I can make out from her. A pained voice of innocence and sadness. I bow my head and hear a whisper from her, a last request. I heed her and raise my blade. I bring it down through her chest, pining her to the earth beneath. I leave her there and pull out one of my throwing knives. As she fades away I leave her request etched into the stone.

 _Here lies The Scythe Dancer_  
 _Ruby Rose_  
 _Born innocent, she gave her life against the Grimm Black_  
 _Daughter of the White Dancer_  
 _Summer Rose_  
 _Prisoner of the Drawn World of Vaul_  
 _Thus Kindly They Scatter_

She fades away. Leaving behind a cracked silver eye and the Dancer's Soul. I raise my head to the splintered moon above. Holding its reverence within my gaze before I continue my trek and light the next beacon.

* * *

Despite the appearance, this is not a story yet. This is the grounds of a work in progress I've been making. They are just small parts I've written for a story I plan to write once I get a computer. Let me tell you, using desktop mode on a broken windows phone is not easy. Nor proof editing on an Xbox One.

These story parts are of the same planned narrative but at different locations of the planned story. Depending on what I write and decide to post, the story ideas could go from the planned middle, to the end, and then to the start. I am posting this as they could currently be classified as short stories, though the argument that these are previews can be made.

The Painted World is a Dark Souls/RWBY fusion crossover using the original Dark Souls as a basis as I have yet to play Dark Souls 2 or 3 as I have actually yet to finish the first game.

Curse you Knight Artorias the Abysswalker

But please, I hope you enjoyed the groundwork for my story and possibly gave an interesting glimpse into how some authors shape their ideas and stories from initial idea, to plan, then execution.

Have a nice day.


	2. The Cindered Maiden

I think I might actually do away with my usual jab at people doing half-arsed disclaimers by including an actual disclaimer based off the Australian system. It's too annoying to do without an actual computer.

* * *

The Painted World

 _Autumn._ The last soul I need. The soul of one of the mythical _Maidens._ My experiences in Vala so far have lead me to find it ridiculous if anyone still believes something is a myth. The mere existence of the Drawn World aids in that regard. Still I approach the iron doors that lay at the bottom of the stone elevator. Draped across my shoulders, fashioned into an admittedly light yet durable steel plate armour lies a white cloak. A final gift of the _White Dancer_ for saving her daughter. The cloaks hood is drawn to cover my head. On my left arm I wear a keepsake. A reminder of the one who freed my from the _North Atlas Asylum_ so long ago. A reinforced _Arc Kite Shield._ In my right I wield the _Shrouded Cleaver._ The pilfered spoils from _Belladon,_ keeper of the _Faun_ soul.

I push open the heavy doors, revealing the stained black fog beyond. Leading to _Autumn,_ the last soul I need. The soul of the _Cindered Maiden._ I bow my head and step through. I know how long I have waded through the black. It may only be a scant few steps from one side to the other, but to me it felt like centuries. I open my eyes and raise my head once I have reached the other side. I gaze upon the arena. A high ceiling with no apparent end. The room itself is rounded with a wide strip in the middle no bigger than five metres for our fight, and two deep pits on either side. And sitting at the other end of the room was her, the _Cindered Maiden._

"Ah," her voice wafts over, "Whom is this?" Her head is cast in shadow, an amber eye visible within the darkness. "Are you?" She laughs. "Art thee an arrogant fool. Doth thou think you can beat me? Kill me?" She laughs again. Her voice is soft with a bitter edge. A voice that commands respect. She stood at that moment. She stepped down from her throne, shoes clacking against the tiled floor. Bringing her into the light. If I had a working libido then I might have even found her somewhat alluring.

I had found, discovered since my freeing from the _Asylum_ and my killing of the _Corrupted Paladin Demon,_ one of them at least, that with each passing day, or what constitutes a day, I had become more lucid. My thoughts felt less shrouded and more free, the very act of thinking felt less laborious to my mind.

She continued her pace, measured steps placed one after the other. "It hath truly been so long since I had a plaything to _burn."_ She flared a ball of flames in her left hand. I could only stare. The size of the flame was...pitiful. I could conjure greater flames with my pyromancy. Did she truly believe that to be intimidating? I started walking towards her.

"Or hath thou become lost?" A smirk graced her face, "Poor little lost fool. Thou shalt never match my strength." She continues to walk. I make no pauses in my stride. "I shalt give thee one chance." We are a mere metre apart now. She looks down at me. "Kneel. And I shall make your suffering last a decade and not a century." She laughs again.

...No.

I recognise what her voice is now. It does not command respect.

It screams for _attention._

Her threats are hollow.

Her powers are weak.

Her arrogance is overwhelming.

"So little fool? Shalt thee run? Or shalt thee di-" she looks down. I had grown tired of her desire to hear her own voice and ran her through with my blade. She crumples to the floor. I look down at her body. Already it is cracking into ash and floating away. After all her postulating about herself I expected something more... _substantial._ It was however a rather nice change of pace from the attempt, die, attempt, die, attempt, die, attempt, kill them that I hade encountered before. That cycle was like a constant turning pinwheel.

I waited, her corpse laying there. Odd. I felt no rush of power, no absorption of souls. Soon though my prize revealed itself. The _Autumn_ soul. Before I could claim it however. It flowed off the side of the arena and into the pit. My shoulders slumped. The ground rumbled beneath my feet and from the pit came a sound akin to a roar. Within a second a body came rising out of the pit. Molten eyes trained on me, an angered expression marred her face. She spoke.

"I will kill you." Hatred was palpable on every word.

One name floated through my mind at the sight of the woman.

 _Amb,_ the _Fallen Maiden._

I sighed. And for the first time in what must have been centuries I spoke. My voice coming out raspy.

"... _Gods damn it_..."

A spear of fire pierced my chest.

* * *

Truly, the hardest part about this is having to go through and get rid of the italyics system used on SpaceBattles and go through each individual word and hit the italyics promt to redo it.

Hope you have a nice day.


	3. The Warrior

The Painted World

The rustling of chains came to an end as the elevator came to a stop. The undead shambled off, solely focused on the beacon that lay within the room and its need to light it. Wholly ignoring the warrior clad in red that sat next to the light source until he had reached out to the Beacon and lit it.

"Oh, hello!" The figure said, it's helmeted head laying eyes on the undead. "Would you like a seat?" The figure gestured to the space around the burning lamp.

The undead eyed the figure, its mind still plagued with fog from its time in the Asylum. The other undead cast its eyes down to the beacon again.

"...sorry..." They said, crestfallen.

There was a clank of metal and stone and the undead raised their eyes again to see the undead sitting opposite them. Both warriors studied the other. One through curiosity, the other through the want of knowledge, to end the fog that crowded their mind from the Asylum. To think _free_ again.

The warrior wore red light armour. Upon her helmet sat a bronze circlet set into the crown of the metal. Next to them sat a red and bronze buckler shield and a sat upon their back was a short sword, no. In the flickering light of the beacon the weapon seemed to grow to the size of a spear then back to a short sword in moments.

The undead wore chainmail fit for a knight on their chest and legs. On their arms and head they wore the dark leather armour of a thief. On their back was a claymore but laid in front of them sat a familiar shield.

"That shield...where did thou find it?"

The undead slowly turned its gaze downwards.

"...Knight...freed..." Its voice was raspy and weak.

"A knight freed thou?"

A slow nod returned.

"So, he was still helping others. Where from were thou freed?"

"...Asylum..."

Both figures sat in silence.

"Did...how did he free thou?"

"...Threw...Key..."

The silence continued.

"Why did he give you his shield?"

"...Perished..."

"Oh...how?"

"...Stones...collapsed...fell...gave...chance..."

The warriors gaze had dropped to the floor.

"...Know...Him...?"

The warrior raised their eyes to the undead.

"Yes. In life we were friends, though I did not know what happened to him once I succumbed to undeath." The warrior let out a chuckle. "It gives me joy to know that he continued to help others until the end."

"...What...name...?"

"Jaune...His name was Jaune." The warrior looked to the undead. "Doth thou know yours?"

A slow shake of the head returned.

"Would you like me to give you one? As a sign of thanks?"

"...Yes..."

The warrior looked around the room, how the darkness receded from the light of the beacon. A bastion to the weary fighters before they move on.

"Bastion."

The undead looked upon the warrior.

"What about Bastion?"

"...Bas...tion...Bastion..."

"Do you like that?"

"...Yes..."

"Hello Bastion. It is nice to meet you."

"...Thank...you...for...name...What...yours...?"

Their helmet was downcast again.

"I doth not remember. It has been so long since anyone used it that I hath forgotten."

"...Friend...safe...but...forgotten...self..."

"Yes, I'd say."

"...Pyrrhic..."

The warrior looked up to the ceiling above.

"In a way."

There was a clank of metal and stone.

"...Must...continue..."

The warrior returned their gaze to the undead.

"...Farewell...Pyrrhic...Warrior..."

Left alone next to a beacon, as a bastion faded into the shadows surrounding the light, no longer having another there, the warrior removed their helm. And She mourned the death of her lost friend.

As the undead walked through the darkness, the warriors silent cries echoing, with renewed vigilance, they continued their war.

* * *

The Painted World was only supposed to be a placeholder title. Turns out I couldn't think of anything better and liked the name.

See if you can identify the RWBY characters used/referenced so far.


	4. The Invader

The Painted World

I sighed, or what could pass for a sigh in my current state. Undeath allowed me to not need to take breath, yet still I find myself often partaking in the action. Whether due to the forgotten memory of what it was like to be alive once, or in part due to a subconscious need to prove to myself that I am not just some shambling corpse, that I have needs that simple acts tend to. Perhaps it was due to the curiosity in the drawn world of seeing the mist everytime I spoke, and the White Dancer kindly explaining to me what the mists origin was.

These thoughts were of no matter and served more as distractions than aid to me. The being standing in front of me, kindly allowing me to stare hatefully at the figure from my position kneeling. The mockery of a face on the mask they wore staring back.

They appeared to take note of my anger, they rose their arms out. "Well, what is it?" Came the question, extending from one side of the bridge to the other.

I regarded them with angered eyes, upon their back was a small shield, in their hands they held an ultra-greatsword loosely. Excluding the mask they wore thick heavy armour.

"What do you want invader?" I asked. For that's what they were, an invader, a stranger. An exaggerated shrug returned as answer.

I raised, bringing to bear sword and shield against my foe. This...battle...had been ongoing for the last hour or so, time is a curious thing in Vala, its passage is confusing. Three steps could take hours and battles could take seconds but we would not know for in our pursuit of our goals we'd pay it no mind.

The 'battle' as it were consisted of me dodging this madman's strikes and trying to get them to answer a damned question. In any lapse the man would ask 'Well, what is it?' and shrug at any question I asked them. Even Kay-Vin, the Blight Dragon and his relentless spawn were not this infuriating to question or kill. Nao the Mirrorwalker however...

The man swung his sword again, I rolled under it, the sword slammed into the ground where I once was. The impact of the overhead swing kicking up any settled dust or dirt. I stopped and spun once I finished the roll.

"Well, what is it?"

I glared back. "Art thou mentally unstable, or very simple minded?" I queried the other undead.

A shrug returned.

This oaf appeared to be doing their damndest to enrage me.

They swung again, I dodged again, although this time I challenged him.

"Well, what is it!" I yelled at them only to find them now waving at me. Truly the strangest thing I hath encountered thus far. Then they shrugged again. My patience had come to an end. They swung again only this time I did not roll, I did not dodge. I waited and parried the attack, sending the sword to the side, then I impaled them on my sword. Running them through.

I did not stop there though. I forced them to topple over, the sword impaling into the bridge, holding the invader down. I pushed, sending the sword deeper. At that moment, as they struggled to wrench the sword keeping the down I drew my shortsword and started hacking off their head. Stabbing, mutilating until head and neck separated from shoulders. As the body was fading away, I heard one last thing.

"... _Git gud_..."

Truly, some deserve to go hollow.

* * *

I wrote this today I guess, though at one in the morning so once I woke up I could not remember for the life of me why I decided to write a Giantdad invader. Or what possessed me to think it was a good idea.

Eh, it's something though.


	5. The White Dancer

The Painted World.

The Drawn World, as the undead innately knew, was cold and unforgiving. The bleak colours of the decaying castle was only amplified by the bright snow scattered across the grounds. Ahead the Undead could see the twisted mockeries of the animals that called Vaul home. Each the embodiment of rage and hate. The Undead cut them down as they attacked. One a cross between a crow and a person. The next an armoured hunk of flesh and muscle. Their sword split each in two, the murky blood dripping from these dead horrors and staining the snowy courtyard.

Next came a hollowed. Reckless and with no thought of self preservation they charged the Undead. The sharpened edge of a shield met the hollowed ones charge. The hollowed perished by the blow, severing the spine and sending blood from the cracked skin of the beings chest. Staining the Undead's armour with another splotch of ink black blood.

The Undead fought until the clatter and din of battle came to a silence. They stood in the centre of the blood and guts and death. Head hung low, sword and shield still at the ready. The time they stood like this was unknowable before the Undead raised their head and placed their arms away and began the process of healing from the battle. They removed the spears and arrows that littered their body. Paying no attention to the pain it brought. They retrieved their flask and swallowed the healing liquid inside. They placed it away and took up their arms again.

The Undead crossed the courtyard and came to a set of iron doors. They heaved and pushed with all their strength, and slowly the doors opened. What was revealed was a bridge, at the opposite end was the black fog door the Undead had grown accustomed to. On the bridge stood a golem, appearing more bear than man. An Ursine Knight. The name floated through the Undead's limited thoughts briefly.

They passed the threshold of the doors, striding out across the bridge, meeting the Knight head on. The Knight's greathammer met the unwavering shield of the Undead. The Undead thrust their sword. Aiming for gaps in the armour while the Knight prepared another swing of their hammer. The sword found a mark, slicing between the knee of the Knight, eliciting a roar of pain from the Knight. The Undead did not expect the kick that came from the Knight, nor the hammer strike that laid them on their back. The Undead scrambled to their feet in time to see the Knight begin to drink from their own flask. The Undead reached into their bag and pulled out an unstable Black Fire Crystal and threw it at the Knight. Coating them in molten flames. The Undead charged the Knight, metal warped by the flames allowed the Undead to run the Knight through with their blade. The Undead retreated from the disappearing body fast, lest they to be consumed by the flames.

The Undead stood before the black fog. All their work. All their deaths, would be made worthy by the being on the opposite end of the fog. The Undead bowed their head and walked into the fog. Wading through the black.

The Undead raised their head on the opposing side of the black. Across stood a being. A white cloak fluttering behind their person. A hood obscured the Undead from their visage. In their hands they held a large metal staff. They faced away from the Undead, gazing out over a sheer drop into swirling cloud and rolling inks. _The White Dancer_.

The Undead raised their weapons in preparation of the battle ahead when a soft voice stole their attention.

"Thou need not thy weapons here."

The Undead faltered.

"I have watched thee insofar on thy journey, noble undead. Tis mine curse. Of my imprisonment. I gaze over this empty expanse and I see truth and misery. Yet I am powerless to help."

The Undead lowered their weapon. Gazing at the individual.

"I apologise. I hath not introduced mine self." The Dancer turned towards the Undead. Allowing them a clear view of the Dancer's face. "I am Summer Rose. Please, come watch with me. The world may reveal something to you." The Dancer, Summer, gestured for the Undead to approach. "Thou came with intent to kill. Mayhap this shall reverse thy stance. At least here."

The Undead approached the cliffside. Stowing their arms away. They- _He_ stood at their- _Her_ side. The expanse cleared some of his mind. The fog lifted from select memories. He remembered concepts, He remembered titles. Just when it felt like for the first time in an age that He would remember His life it was blocked off again.

"What didst thou see?"

The Undead looked down to their hands, as if inspecting them, as if seeing them in a new light.

"I see purpose and journeys."

The Undead looked to the Dancer.

"The paths people could take. Until thou were freed from that prison I had not seen anything in a very long time." The Dancer gazed out over the fog and ink with cold eyes. "I thank thee for freeing the citizens from their curse, although it will not last." The Dancer turned to face him. "You have the chance to be a great man. Do not squander it with needless deaths."

The Undead nodded.

"You may leave the Drawn World by leaping from the outcrop." The Dancer gestured towards a broken bridge. The Undead opened their mouth. Before any sound could leave them the Dancer spoke again.

"I have seen your future, noble undead, and I know that your path will lead you back here. Once you return I shall answer any question thou ask."

The Undead nodded in their understanding and walked up to the edge of the bridge. They looked down into the black and tensed themselves.

"Fare thee well, undead."

They heard at their back. And with a leap, He left the Drawn World.

-  
The Dancer was left alone.

"Until next time, Bastion." She whispers to the wind.

As the calls and shouts of the denizens of the Drawn World reappear. She watches the undead's future again. She watches her death by his blade. She watches him kill her daughter. She watches as he confronts the protector of the first flame and turns her eyes away. He would decide his own actions there. Not her.

A soft sigh was scattered to the wind, and the last rose was left in her bleak world, alone.


End file.
